The Shimmering Colors Between Two Worlds
by MTK4FUN
Summary: When Katniss Everdeen agreed to attend a historical reenactment she didn't expect to really travel through time. A time-travel story in seven parts written for Prompts in Panem, Peeta's Paintbox, August 2014.
1. Chapter 1 - Red

**1. Red.**

It's hot as hell in Gale's Chevy's Suburban as he speeds down I-84. The air-conditioner is broken and all the windows are open.

"I'm so glad you agreed to come with us Katniss," Madge shouts over the noise of the highway. "We're going to have so much fun."

Spending the weekend living the life of an Oregon pioneer isn't my idea of fun. Especially in this heat wearing a long dress and a bonnet.

"You look so cute," Madge had said when I tried on her red dress, one of the five costumes she owns. All of them are hand-made in authentically reproduced fabrics.

My cousin and his wife are into this sort of thing. They like to dress up with other history buffs and spend their weekends reenacting the American journey west.

I, however, am not a fan of dressing up or playing pretend. But I agreed because the weekend provides me an opportunity to go hunting with Gale. The organizers of this event had gotten permission from the state of Oregon to allow participants in the reenactment to go hunting on federal lands for the first of the two days we would be there.

Of course all of the reenactors have to use guns that are replicas of those used no later than 1860. I'm an archer, though, and no one cares about the authenticity of my bow and arrows, which were likely manufactured at least one hundred years later as they belonged to my father when he was young.

Anyway it isn't as if I have anything better to do. Since my sister's death two years ago, I've tried to keep myself as busy as possible.

"I have to pee," Madge whines. She's three months pregnant and spends a lot of time in the bathroom these days. Peeing or barfing.

Gale snarls but he begins weaving across the highway to get off at the next exit. Mellark, Oregon, consists of a gas station, a diner, and a couple of small stores.

"Might as well get something to eat," Madge says after departing the toilet at the gas station.

Gale groans. "You know Madge, there's a big dinner planned tonight."

"Yes, but I'm craving some fries right now," Madge chides him.

We go inside the diner and sit at a booth next to the front window, and order. A glint appears in Madge's eyes when she spies a couple of antique shops. "Katniss and I will be right back," she tells Gale.

She slides across the seat and pushes against me. "Let's take a peek in those shops across the street."

"Better be quick or I'm eating your fries if they beat you back," Gale says.

I exchange a grimace with Gale and follow Madge out of the diner and across the two-lane road. I hate shopping, but Madge loves it. Especially in these little out-of-way places. She's always on the lookout for something to make her reenacting more real.

Madge rushes to the first shop, but the door is locked.

"See it's closed." I point to the sign in the window.

She swears under her breath. "Let's try the place next door."

We walk to the next building and the door easily opens. We enter a small room littered with dusty tables. The faint smell of mold hangs in the air. Madge is quickly pawing over the contents of one of the tables. Touching all kinds of odds and ends.

"Look at these," she squeals. She holds up two red hair combs with mother of pearl inlaid along the scalloped edge. "This would go perfect with your dress."

My mind is blank for a moment as I try to figure out what dress Madge is talking about because I rarely wear them, but then I realize she means the dress she loaned me for the weekend.

"I don't need the combs," I tell Madge.

But she's already turned to the older gentleman who has come out from behind a curtain in the backroom to watch us like a hawk, and asked the price.

He names an amount and she begins to haggle. I think this is Madge's favorite reason for shopping in these stores. She enjoys getting a bargain.

They soon settle on a price and Madge opens her purse.

"Just a minute," the man says after he takes her cash. "There's something else that goes with those combs. He walks into the back of the shop and returns carrying a small picture frame containing a faded photo of an older couple. "This lady is the original owner of the combs."

Madge glances at the picture. "They're smiling. That's so unusual for these old photos." She holds the picture out for me to see.

I give it a polite glance.

"They were an usual couple," the man says. He smiles at me and winks. His bright blue eyes startle me.

Madge shoves the combs and the photo into her purse.

"I don't need the combs," I tell her as we walk back to the diner.

"It will match the outfit Katniss," she says. "And I'm not giving them to you. I'm loaning them to you for the weekend."

Our food is sitting on the table when we get back.

"Enjoy it," Madge says as she shoves a french fry into her mouth. "It'll be simple food for the next two days."

We're soon on the road again. We drive for another hour before we reach our destination. We park in a large lot filled with campers, recreational vehicles, and other gas-guzzlers. People are milling about, some already wearing their pioneer garb, others in modern street attire, jeans and tee shirts.

Madge and I change in a large public restroom. There are many other women changing as well and even some young children.

Everyone is excited about the weekend. Most have already fallen into their reenactor mode and are having deep discussions about such fascinating topics as the Donation Land Act of 1850 or Oregon Statehood in 1862. It makes me wish I'd brushed up on my nineteenth century American history because I have little to contribute to the conversation.

Once we are dressed, Madge helps me pin up my braid holding it in place with the red combs. "They add the perfect touch," she says.

After we are dressed we return to the Suburban to carry our gear to the campsite. It's not a far walk. Everything is set up right past the trees that border the restrooms.

I wish for my cell phone so I could take a photo. It's an amazing scene with dozens of covered wagons scattered about and tents pitched everywhere. But modern gadgets are off limits this weekend. My phone is in the car.

"How many people are here?" I gasp.

"Hundreds," Gale answers.

I'm astounded that this many people spend their time play-acting in the past. Was life so much better then?

Madge isn't much help while Gale and I set up the two canvas tents. We dump our bedrolls inside them and head over to the eating area, carrying tin plates and silverware in our hands. Even though we had eaten a short time ago, we stand in line to get more. Madge and I settle for the strawberry cobbler but Gale takes the entire meal, roasted meat, potatoes, a green salad and dinner biscuits dripping with butter.

We sit down at picnic tables and Gale begins a conversation with the man at his left. His name is Finnick Odair and he introduces us to his wife Annie, and his year-old son Sam.

While the men talk, Annie and Madge talk about the struggles that faced women in Oregon Territory. "Without electricity and running water, it was tough," Annie says.

She turns to me. "So are you looking for a husband here?"

I choke on my cobbler.

"Nooo," I say, throwing Madge a nervous glance.

Instead of saving me though, Madge continues along the same line of thinking. "There are a lot of single guys here Katniss."

I shake my head. I'm not interested in attracting a history geek. Having one for a cousin is bad enough.

After we eat, we return to our campsite to set everything up. The Odair's tent is nearby and they join us at the campfire Gale makes. Annie holds their sleeping son. Gale and Finnick sip at mugs of whiskey.

"Not microbrew?" I ask Madge.

She shakes her head. "No. Whiskey was the popular drink on the trail. They took it along for medicinal purposes."

After a while, I excuse myself to go inside my tent. I take off the dress. I'm not wearing the official pioneer underwear, a chemise, which is a kind of long camisole, and split drawers that reach past the knees but allows women to squat in their dresses and pee. Instead I'm in a simple bra and panties. But it likely doesn't matter because I have no plans of stripping for any history nerds this weekend. I wrap myself up in my blanket and fall asleep.

Maybe it's the setting, perhaps it's Annie's silly question, or more likely it's because I haven't been with anyone in such a long time that causes me to have one of the most intense dreams ever.

I'm wearing my pioneer garb and I'm kissing a handsome reenactor, running my fingers through his blond hair and staring into his blue eyes.

Just when things are heating up though, Madge shakes me awake.

"Katniss, you need to keep it down," she whispers. "You were getting really loud. We could hear you in our tent."

"What?" I am ready to kill her for ruining my dream.

"You were having some kind of nightmare," she continues. "And who the hell is Peeta? You were moaning that name over and over."

I cringe in embarrassment. I had no idea I was talking in my sleep. But before I can explain anything, Madge stares at my head and snatches the red combs from my hair. "Katniss, you can't sleep in these, they're antiques."


	2. Chapter 2 - Orange

**2. Orange**

I sit at the table and stare into the fire, my hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea. Maybe I should have looked for a wife before I traveled West because there aren't many single women in Oregon Territory. Here I am, the owner of a one-room log cabin sitting on 320 acres of land that rivals the Garden of Eden, and I'm lonely as hell.

It would be so nice to watch the sunset with someone by my side, preferably someone of the female persuasion. My brother Rye says I should visit Oregon City where there are a few single ladies living with their families.

But even if I borrowed Rye's horse to travel there, I can't imagine any of them would consent to join me, Peeta Mellark, out here in the middle of nowhere. Those town women have their pick of suitors lining up to seek their favor.

Shaking my teacup slightly, I watch the leaves swirl up from the bottom, wishing I knew how to read the meaning from them to predict my future. Because right at this moment, things are bleak.

I don't think I'll ever find someone to wear the red combs that my grandmother left me to give to my bride on her wedding day. I've always pictured my wife as a dark-haired beauty because of those combs – the mother-of-pearl inlaid along the scalloped edge would stand out against a dark mane.

I sigh, and take a swallow of tea.

A loud boom overhead startles me and I grip the cup tighter. Thunder. The summer storms are infrequent but they can be fierce. The pounding of hail hits the bark roof. I go to the door and open it, watching chunks of ice cover the ground.

The biscuit-sized hail lasts for at least ten minutes. I am ready to shut the door when it ends, but I notice a faint greenish light low on the horizon forming an arch that lazily stretches across the sky. As time passes, additional bands of light form and drift overhead, slowly brightening to form giant curtains in the sky. The curtains that are made of light slowly wave as if a gentle breeze were blowing. Suddenly the bottom of the curtains brightens with an orange tint. They ripple faster. Blues, reds, and purples appear. The entire sky seems to be full of color and motion. The sight mesmerizes me. Gradually, though, it all fades away.

I've never seen anything like this before. I wish I had someone to share it with. Instead I shut the door and go to bed.

The air is fresh the next morning, but the ground is muddy. I take a walk around the property to check the damage caused by the storm. The roof took a hit and some of the bark shingles will need to be replaced before the fall rains start. The garden is even worse. I take a bucket from the house and save what vegetables I can. When I see the green shoots of the pumpkins that are bent and broken, I am heartsick. I was planning to make pies with those pumpkins.

I run my fingers through my hair about ready to scream, wondering yet again why I agreed to travel to Oregon with my brother and his family. I'm a baker, not a farmer.

While I'm staring at the garden trying to figure out what to do next, I hear a woman's voice.

"Damn it all Gale where are you?" she hollers.

Astonished, I turn my head to determine where she could be. The nearest woman in the area is my sister-in-law Delly and she's ten miles away.

The voice seems to be coming from a nearby wooded section of my land. I put the bucket down and set off in that direction wondering what a woman would be doing there. Especially one who is cursing.

Maybe I dreamed her to life with my despairing thoughts. My own personal Lilith.

I see her as she exits the thicket of trees. A small woman in a red dress with her dark hair pinned up. A bonnet hangs off her neck by its ties. She's got a bow slung over her shoulder and a bag with arrows on her back.

"Hello," she calls to me.

I walk closer. But when we're a few yards apart, her expression changes. She looks like she's seen a ghost. She puts her hand to her mouth as if in shock.

"Are you all right?"

I take a step closer and she takes a few steps backwards, almost tripping over her skirt. She stares warily at me for at least a minute, before she speaks.

"Have you seen a tall man wearing a blue checked shirt and dark pants just like yours?" she asks. I hear a slight tremor in her voice.

"No ma'am, I haven't. Have you lost your husband?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not married," she mutters. "Gale's my cousin."

I nod at her words, secretly pleased at her lack of a husband.

A puzzled look comes over her face. "Where's your gun? I thought everyone out here was hunting."

For a moment I don't listen to what she is saying because I'm falling under the spell of her silvery eyes. I haven's seen such a pretty woman since I crossed the Platte River and left the civilized world behind.

But I suddenly realize that she is describing a hunting party. People hunting on my land. I mentally curse myself for leaving my gun behind in the cabin. I've heard stories of people being run off their land grant, robbed, even murdered.

I study her carefully wondering whether she is handy with that bow. I could wrestle her to the ground but what good would it do when her cousin could come along and shoot me.

Meanwhile she stares at me, likely waiting for an answer.

"I'm not hunting," I reply. "I was checking out the damage that storm did last night to my property."

"Was there a storm last night? I must have slept through it."

She must be a heavy sleeper to have not heard that tumult.

"I didn't know people lived out here," she continues. "I thought this area was owned by the federal government."

"It was until last year when they granted it to me."

Her eyes sweep the panorama. "How much of it is yours?"

"Three-hundred and twenty acres."

She whistles loudly in an unladylike fashion.

"So do you live here then?"

"Yes, I do."

I am beginning to get nervous wondering where her companion could be. Is he robbing my cabin while I make small talk? Will he come up behind me and shoot me in the back?

"I could help you find your cousin," I suggest, hoping her answer would help me figure out whether or not she's speaking the truth.

She nods. "That would be fine, I guess. I'm Katniss," she introduces herself, giving me a small smile.

"I'm Peeta."

Her face goes white and she looks like she might faint.

"Are you all right?"

"Just fine," she murmurs.

But I catch her looking at me strangely over the next hour as we walk in and around the small woods. We do not find him, and as our search spreads over a wider area she grows agitated.

"I'm not sure how to get back," she explains. "They brought us here to hunt and they were supposed to pick us up before dark."

"Who brought you here?"

"One of the reenactors."

"Actors?"

"Yes," she explains. "That's why I'm wearing this dress. I thought you were one of them because of your clothes. But I guess men's clothes don't change as much as women's."

It makes no sense to me that actors would be hunting on my land, but I am growing hungry. "Look why don't you come back to my cabin and I'll fix us something to eat."

She gives me a nervous look and I realize that even though we've spent the last several hours together Katniss doesn't trust me at all. Or maybe she's embarrassed about having to ask for help. I think of a way she could contribute.

"Could you get us some meat with that bow of yours?" I ask. "Maybe a squirrel."

"You eat squirrel?"

She acts as if she'd never considered it.

"They cook up nice in stew."

Katniss looks at me strangely, but she stands still and puts her hand up to indicate I shouldn't move either. We wait a few minutes and a squirrel jumps right down from a tree. She shoots it clean through the eye.

She picks it up and pulls the arrow out. "Here you go," she says, handing it to me.

We go back to my cabin and once again she acts as if she'd never seen anything like it before.

"You live off the grid?" she exclaims.

I shake my head puzzled at her comment.

She doesn't explain. "Did you build it yourself?"

I nod and describe the work involved, chopping down tall, straight trees and notching them together one by one. Peeling the bark off green wood to make shingles for the roof. With Rye's help it took me close to six weeks to complete, but I'm proud of my home.

As the sun goes down, bathing the world in an orange glow, we sit on the threshold of the front door eating squirrel stew. I give Katniss my only spoon to use and I scoop up my stew with a biscuit. Only last night I sat wishing for a woman by my side. What a difference a day can make.


	3. Chapter 3 - Yellow

**3. Yellow**

Seeing the man from my dream is unsettling and embarrassing. I can hardly look him in the eye after remembering those kisses. But I pull myself together because 1.) He doesn't know about my dream, and 2.) I have no idea where Gale and the rest of the reenactors have gone.

I didn't get much sleep after Madge woke me from my steamy dream, even though I tried my best to fall back into it. I was still awake when Gale popped his head into the tent and told me to get dressed because we were leaving soon for the hunt.

After a quick meal of cornbread and coffee, everyone jumped in the back of a covered wagon. Gale and I hightailed it away from the others as soon as we were let out. I was nervous being around so many nerds with guns.

I stuck close to Gale, but we separated for a short time so I could take a pee break, which isn't easy in this god-awful dress and 21st century underwear. But when I went looking for him he was gone. Vanished completely.

Then I met Peeta. He's even better looking in person. Medium height, solid build, ash blond hair, with the beginnings of a scruffy beard, and beautiful blue eyes. He looks like he stepped off an Abercrombie & Fitch poster.

He's friendly, but completely clueless that there are hundreds of reenactors camped somewhere nearby.

From what I gather, he's some kind of back-to-the-lander who lives off the grid in the Oregon wilderness. Judging from his cabin, he seems to take his lifestyle very seriously.

The interior of his home is simply arranged. A sleeping pallet covered with a gray woolen blanket lies against the back wall, and a small wooden table with two chairs sits in front of the fireplace. A trunk is pushed against the other wall with a few books stacked on top. His clothes hang off hooks that are wedged into the log wall above the trunk, and his dishes and cookware sit on the broad mantle over the fireplace.

It's a very streamlined setup, although it isn't perfect. When I asked Peeta where the toilet was he pointed me in the direction of the nearest bush.

Peeta keeps the door open most of the time because the cabin has no windows, but as night falls the temperature drops. He lights some candles and shuts the door.

I guess I'm here for the night. I imagine Gale and whoever is in charge of this event has already called the state police, rangers, or somebody to look for me. Maybe they'll send a search and rescue helicopter. I still can't figure out how I got so far away from the group.

"Would you like some tea?" Peeta asks me. He's heating water in a pot that hangs over the fire.

Sitting at the table, I nod. Peeta dips a chipped cup into the pot to scoop up hot water and then drops some tea leaves into it. He sets the cup down for the tea to steep, and joins me at the table. I watch as the leaves slowly sink to the bottom. But when I take a sip, I get a tealeaf in my mouth. I swallow the bitter plant quickly.

"What kind is this?" I ask.

Peeta looks puzzled. "It's tea."

"But what kind?"

"Are there different kinds?"

I laugh. "There are many kinds, black tea, green tea, chai tea, fruit-flavored tea, herbal tea." My mind goes blank as I try to remember the menu of the Starbucks I frequent.

His jaw drops. "I didn't know."

I feel bad because it wasn't my intention to make him feel stupid. "Aren't you having a cup as well?" I ask.

Peeta gives me a sheepish grin. "I just have one mug. I'm not set up for company."

I push the cup toward him. "It's okay. We can share."

He raises his eyebrows and I see the hesitation in his eyes. Maybe he's worried about germs. But he takes the cup from me and has a swallow before passing it back.

"How did you end up living here all by yourself?" I ask. "Was it because of a woman?"

He laughs and his cheeks turn pink. "Does my mother count?"

I roll my eyes at his joke, assuming it is a joke, and wait for him to explain more.

"I came to Oregon Territory last year with my brother Rye and his wife Delly and their son. They're settled ten miles from here."

I wonder at his using the word "territory," but I let it slide. After spending time with the reenactors it doesn't sound so strange to my ears.

"Where were you from originally?"

"Kentucky."

That would account for the slight twang in his voice. His speech pattern, in fact his entire easy-going demeanor reminds me of some of the country musicians on CMT.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Born and bred here in Oregon," I say before yawning. It's been a long day.

"We should probably turn in," Peeta says.

An uncomfortable silence falls upon us for a moment.

"Take the bed." Peeta points to a thin pallet against the wall.

I walk over to it and sit down. I'm practically level with the floor. "Where will you sleep?"

I'm not a woman who invites men I just met into my bed but I as I look around the tiny room, I can't imagine where Peeta plans to lie down.

He pushes the table and chairs back a little, and settles himself in front of the hearth.

"Is it safe there? You don't have a screen in front of the fire," I ask, worried that a spark will jump out and land on him.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you Katniss?" Peeta grins. "It's dying down. I'll be fine."

As soon as I lie down on the pallet, which has a strange give to it, Peeta gets up and blows out the candles, leaving only the fire in the hearth to light the room.

The aroma of pine rises from the mat as I settle in and I wonder if Peeta has filled it with pine needles. I want to ask him, but his eyes have already closed and in the small space, I can hear that his breathing has slowed. It's a wonder that he could fall asleep so quickly.

I stare at his hair, which looks like spun gold in the firelight.

I toss and turn but sleep doesn't come. The fire has died down considerably but there is enough light for me to still see. I get up from the bed to check out Peeta's books. Maybe reading will help me sleep.

His three-book library consists of a well-worn _Bible_, _The Last of the Mohicans_ by James Fenimore Cooper, and Daniel DeFoe's _Robinson Crusoe_. The covers of the novels look be made of an older, thicker material that I suspect is calfskin. I open the Cooper book to see when it was printed. I nearly bite my tongue when I see a date of 1826. I check out _Robinson Crusoe_. It's even older, dating back to the late eighteenth century. I've spent enough time in Powells City of Books to recognize that Peeta's library is worth a pretty penny because these novels are in excellent condition for their age. The pages haven't yellowed. They don't even smell moldy.

I decide to investigate further. Maybe Peeta isn't the simple country boy he's pretending to be. I set the books onto the floor and glance over my shoulder to be sure he's still asleep. Then I open the trunk. Maybe he's got a satellite phone inside or a laptop with satellite internet capabilities. Hell, I'd settle for a ham radio.

But it seems that Peeta is using his trunk for his pantry. It's filled with sacks of flour, sugar, and salt. There's also a pair of boots. I close the lid disappointed, and put the books back on top.

It's getting too dark to read anyway. I return to the bed and close my eyes wondering about the mystery that is Peeta.


	4. Chapter 4 - Green

**4. Green**

Katniss is still sleeping when I wake up. I hear her steady breathing and it takes every bit of self-control I can muster to not pull back the blanket, climb into the bed, and wrap myself around her.

It wasn't particularly respectable that she stayed here with me last night, but it was the decent thing, as she had nowhere to go. I wonder about her cousin and the others in her party. What kind of scoundrels would abandon a woman? Especially Katniss. I think she is Diana with her bow and arrow.

I gather together the ingredients and make griddlecakes topped with gooseberries for Katniss' breakfast. She wakes to the sizzle of the cake in the fry pan.

"What are you making?" she asks. "It smells delicious." She sits up on my pallet and stretches her arms overhead causing the fabric to pull tight across the front of her dress. It makes me ache with a longing I can't describe.

"Griddlecakes," I say attempting to keep my voice level.

She unpins her braid letting the long tail fall down her back. She weaves her fingers through it and her dark tresses cascade across her shoulders. I am reminded of my grandmother's combs and think how lovely they would look in Katniss' hair.

Katniss gives me a grin and I realize she has no idea of the effect she has on me as she finger-combs her hair and rebraids it, leaving it to hang over her left shoulder.

After we eat, I ask Katniss her plans. I am selfish and want her to stay here with me forever.

"I need to find Gale," she says. She wants to walk beyond the woods. She says the actors have set up a camp close by.

"I'll accompany you," I say.

"You don't have to."

"It's not safe to go alone."

"I have my bow and arrows."

"I'm going with you," I insist.

She doesn't argue any more and I take that to mean she's accepted my protection. Although our bellies are full, I pack up some food for us to take along, biscuits, the green beans I rescued from the garden yesterday, and the rest of the gooseberries.

I also take along my rifle and secure my house before we head out. We walk west for an hour past the woods, onto a grassy meadow that appears to go on forever.

"We must be headed in the wrong direction," she insists after a while when all we can see is unending grasslands ahead.

We turn back and retrace our steps to the woods, then walk north for an hour. When that way shows no hope we turn and head south. We walk for nearly two hours. Finally we stop to rest. We drink from a stream and sit under an evergreen tree.

I pull the food out of the satchel I've been carrying, and spread it out on the cloth bag.

We are silent as we eat. I am lost in my thoughts about Katniss, wondering what she wants to do next. I suppose we could hike to Rye's cabin tomorrow and ride into Oregon City. Maybe someone there knows where her cousin or the other actors may be?

"Do you have any family besides your cousin that's in Oregon?" I ask. Maybe I should simply take her to them and give up this fruitless search.

A mournful expression appears on her face. "No," she says. "There's no one left. My parents are gone and my sister died two years ago."

"I'm sorry. I though maybe I could take you to them if we couldn't find your cousin."

"But how would we get there? A flash of anger appears on her face. "Do you have a vehicle stashed somewhere around here Peeta?"

I shrug, not understanding her question.

"Transportation."

I shake my head. "No. I was thinking about borrowing my brother's horse and wagon."

She gives me a strange look. "Peeta, are you Amish by any chance?"

"Amish? Do you mean Anabaptist?" Why would she be asking me that?

I shake my head. "No, my family is Methodist. My grandmother came to that church after The Awaking."

Katniss looks to be baffled at my explanation. She pauses for a moment. "Tell me about your family. You've mentioned your brother Rye and his wife. And you mentioned your mother."

I chuckle. "I'm the youngest of three brothers. Rye is the middle brother. My oldest brother Phyl lives in Kentucky with his family. He took over our father's bakery when he died. My mother lives with his family now. She's a difficult woman. We're not close at all. I was much closer to my paternal grandmother."

"Are you close to Rye?" she asks.

I nod. "Not so much growing up. But we got closer on the journey here and then I helped him and Delly build their cabin, and he helped me with mine."

"Do they live like you then?"

"Rye's house is bigger. And he has a privy. Delly insisted on it."

She laughs at my comment about the privy. I know she was surprised at my bachelor ways when she asked about the toilet. But digging a privy is a lot of work and I had gotten used to not having one on the six-month journey to Oregon.

"What about your sister? Were you close?" I ask.

A sad look covers her face. "Prim and I were four years apart and we weren't always close either. I kind of raised her because when my dad died, my mom checked out."

I don't understand her description of her mother's actions, but I can see it upsets Katniss.

"But then you and your sister grew closer?" I prompt her.

"Yes, when she became an adult, we became friends. That's why it hurt so much when she was killed."

"What happened?"

"A natural gas explosion. A lot of people were hurt, but she died."

Her explanation sounds foreign to me, but I can see the pain she has at her sister's death. Two years have passed and it still affects her.

She is teary-eyed as she pulls her legs up to her chest. Tears fall down her cheek and she puts up her hand to wipe her face.

"What is it Katniss?"

"Where in the hell are they? Shouldn't people be looking for me? I want to go home."

"You will. I promise." Instinctively I move closer and put my arm around her shoulder to comfort her. Her head drops to my shoulder and I kiss her temple. Her eyes look up and catch mine and suddenly her lips are pressed to mine.

I am staggered at first by her boldness, yet quickly intoxicated by her passion. Something in the back of my mind warns me that Katniss seems very experienced in the art of love. I am suddenly jealous of her former suitor. I wonder if she is telling the truth about Gale being her cousin.


	5. Chapter 5 - Blue

**5. Blue**

Peeta seems as into the kiss as I am. I'm hoping for a replay of my dream when he pulls away abruptly leaving me embarrassed because I was the one who initiated it. I have to wonder if there's someone else for whom he's pining. Or maybe he's a religious zealot who wants to remain celibate. Because it seems awfully strange that such an attractive-looking guy would live in the middle of nowhere like a hermit.

"We should probably look for your, ah, cousin," Peeta says. His voice is hoarse and his face is flushed.

My face is just as red. "I guess you're right." He reaches for my hand to help me up, but drops it as soon as I'm standing.

The problem at this point is that I don't know where to look. We've circled the woods for miles. Why aren't there helicopters overhead? Why isn't anyone searching for me? A crazy idea enters my thoughts. Maybe I'm in the middle of a very long dream. But if it is a dream, I don't want to wake up because I don't want Peeta to disappear.

We head back toward the wooded area and comb it yet again. Peeta stays close to my side and I'm grateful. I don't want to lose him too.

My stomach growls loudly and Peeta suggests we get some game so we can go back to the cabin and eat.

We stand very still, our shoulders touching. I nock my bow and Peeta extends his rifle. After a few minutes a rabbit approaches. I nudge Peeta's shoulder with mine to let him know `I've got this,' and then shoot. Straight through the eye. I pull the arrow out.

Peeta shakes his head, and smiles. "I might have to keep you here Katniss, and not let you leave."

He's only trying to cheer me up, but I frown at his joke.

"It will be all right," he reassures me, rubbing my back for just a moment.

I carry the rabbit to the cabin. Peeta takes it from me and skins and guts it before putting it in a pot, along with some vegetables. He puts a lid on the pot and hangs it on a rod that extends over the fire to cook. Then he makes biscuits and places the dough on the top of the lid of the pot.

His cooking skills intrigue me. "Do you live on biscuits and stew?" I ask.

He grins. "Most of the time."

"But don't you miss other foods? Pizza and hamburgers and tacos."

His eyebrows rise. "I don't know those foods."

I narrow my eyes. Is he serious? It's hard to tell.

"You've never eaten them?"

"No."

It sounds odd, but maybe his parents were health nuts that served the plainest of foods.

I have other questions for Peeta. "What happens if you get sick?"

"My brother lives ten miles away. We visit each other regularly."

"Don't you get lonely?"

Peeta nods. "I do Katniss. It is lonely here. It can get downright depressing sometimes."

"Then why do you stay? Why did you leave Kentucky?"

"For the chance to get ahead," he explains. "All I have to do is improve the land, and I've already built a house. I still have to clear more of the land and plant some crops. But in three more years, I'll own it outright. Then I can sell the land and move to Oregon City or Portland, and open a bakery."

His strategy is a sound one. He's clearly very disciplined if he can live without modern conveniences. I have no doubt that someone that is so determined will make good on his plan. And a tract of land this big will fetch a pretty penny when he sells it. He'll have plenty of cash to start his business.

Peeta's got more going for him than any guy I've ever met. And he's so clever, too. I'm amazed at his ingenuity in obtaining a land grant from the federal government. It must be a very obscure program because I've lived all my life in Oregon and I've never heard of anyone obtaining free land. I thought that type of homestead program ended long before I was born.

"What about you Katniss," Peeta asks. "How did you become an actor?"

I laugh at Peeta's assumption. "I'm not an actor," I say. "I only did this because of my cousin Gale and his wife Madge. I'm not into history all that much."

"History?" Peeta asks, a puzzled look crossing his face.

"Yes." I stop speaking because Peeta is removing the cooked biscuits from the lid of the pot. He takes off the lid and checks on the stew.

"It's done," he calls out and we sit down to eat.

Afterwards Peeta says we need to walk to a nearby stream to get some fresh water.

"It must be awful having to carry water back to the cabin all the time," I say. "Too bad you can't dig a well close to the cabin."

"That would be ideal," he agrees. "It's an improvement I'm considering."

The stream isn't too far away. Large, jagged boulders border it, but there is an open section where the rocks are mere pebbles. Water rushes along the shallow stream, sparkling blue in the late day sun.

I'd like to take off my dress, which reeks of sweat, and wash myself in the clear, cool water. But I feel self-conscious around Peeta. I'm not like my friend Johanna who would easily strip in front of him and jump in the water regardless of what he thought.

My cheeks grow warm at the thought of Peeta frolicking nude in the stream at bath time.

Peeta has given me a large bucket. He holds the pot that is dirty with the remnants of our meal. First he cleans it with sand and water. Then we both dip our containers into the stream and fill them.

We carry the water back to the cabin. We pour it into a small covered barrel that sits just outside the door. We make two more trips to the stream until Peeta is satisfied that there is sufficient water in the barrel.

It's near twilight now and Peeta lights some candles inside the cabin.

We sit at the table lost in our individual thoughts as we wait for the water to boil for tea.

Peeta breaks the silence. "Would you consider staying here with me Katniss?"

My jaw drops as I gaze into those brilliant blue eyes. I've only known Peeta for a day and he wants me to _stay_.

For a moment I am almost foolishly happy. He likes me. After spending more than 24 hours alone with Peeta, he has grown on me considerably. I like him too. I think about kissing him and never stopping. Running naked through that stream with him.

But then reality sweeps over me.


	6. Chapter 6 - Violet

**6. Violet**

I've never been a particularly bold person, but I can't help myself. Ever since Katniss arrived I've been drawn to her more and more. I've helped her look for her cousin, but secretly I've been overjoyed that she couldn't find him. I'm selfish. I don't want her to go.

Katniss doesn't answer my question; she looks dazed.

I chuckle nervously. "I guess it's too soon to spring that on you."

She gives me a small smile. "I like you Peeta," she begins, and my heart beats faster. "But I don't see how it could work. I can't just up and leave my life in Portland."

"Is there someone else?" I fear my heart will break if she admits to it.

Fortunately she shakes her head. "No," she mumbles.

"But this afternoon…" I'm thinking about her kiss. Surely she must feel something for me if she kissed me.

She sighs. "Peeta, you hardly know me."

"I know enough about you to know that I want you to stay with me." I am astounded at my daring but I guess loneliness does things to a man.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I stand up and go to my trunk to open it. I reach into one of the boots stored inside and pull out a white folded cloth.

I carry it back to the table. "These belonged to my grandmother," I tell her. "As soon as we met, I knew they were meant for you." I unfold the linen to reveal the red combs.

Katniss takes one look at them and springs up from the chair.

"What game are you playing?" Her cheeks are pink, her silver eyes piecing in the firelight.

I am dumbstruck at her reaction. She has gone from calm to fury in a few seconds.

"Where did you get those combs? Madge took them from me the other night."

How could Katniss have my grandmother's combs? Her comment makes no sense.

Her eyes narrow. "Are you a friend of Gale's? Is this just one elaborate set-up?"

She backs up slowly, making her way to the door.

I get up from my chair.

"I've never met your cousin Katniss. I don't know what you're talking about."

She waves her arm as if pointing to the interior of my cabin. "All of this is one big stunt isn't it? This cabin is like a movie set; it's so damn authentic. Cooking over the fire. Sleeping on a bed of pine needles. Old books in mint condition."

I have no idea what she's accusing me of. It all sounds like gibberish to me.

"What year is this supposed to be, Peeta?"

"It's 1852," I reply. "You know that Katniss."

She turns, opens the door, and bolts out. It's dark outside; the only light comes from the moon and the stars. I chase after her. I doubt she is gone for good since she has left her bow and quiver of arrows leaning against the wall, but I don't want her to get lost. I have done enough searching this day already.

She heads toward the stream.

"Stop Katniss," I shout. But she doesn't stop until she's at the edge of the water.

I am fairly close to her now, just a few yards away. "This is the only direction we didn't search," she yells at me. "The reenactment camp is on the other side of the stream. You deliberately let me wander all over the place today."

"There's nothing there," I say. "Just a pile of rocks. You'd have to climb them for hours to get to a flat spot to camp."

"Stop lying to me Peeta."

She turns and lifts her skirt about knee level and steps gingerly through the shallow, rushing water. I take off after her picking my way carefully. I know she can't get very far. There are boulders up ahead. I will catch her easily at that point.

But when I reach the boulders, she has made quick time in her flight. She is ahead of me, climbing over the rocks that are piled up as if a giant had stacked them.

"Katniss, why are you doing this," I shout as I climb after her. Unfortunately, I misjudge my step and my leg comes down hard between two large rocks, one with a very jagged edge.

I cry out from the sharp, unexpected pain. It feels as if my left thigh has been torn open. It takes a few minutes for me to pull my leg out from where it is wedged between the rocks. My hand is wet with blood when I touch my pant leg. I pull myself off of the rocks and limp toward the stream. I cannot put any weight on my leg.

By the time I reach the pebbled shore I am in agony. My pant leg is wetter and I know I am losing blood. Feeling dizzy I sit, and then lie down on the edge of the stream.

Time slows down as I lay bleeding. I close my eyes. I am so tired.

"Peeta, wake up." I feel a slap to my face and water is splashed on it. I don't know how long I've been dozing.

"Please Peeta, wake up now." The voice is desperate.

A hand runs through my hair and it feels nice. I'm drifting through a gauzy violet-tinted world with no hard rocks, just soft edges when I feel something velvety press into my lips. My eyes fly open.

It's Katniss. Her braid lies on my shoulder, and her face feels wet against my cheek. She continues pressing her lips to mine. How can something feel hard and soft at the same time?

I let out a tiny sigh when she pulls back for a moment.

"What happened to you?" she whispers.

"I fell and my leg..."

I feel her hand ghost over my wound and I wince.

"We need to go."

"Go?" I don't understand her. "Go where?"

"Back to the cabin," she says. "So I can fix you up."

I don't see how that is possible. I can't walk and Katniss is too small to carry me.

"Can you sit up?"

I groan, but she puts her hand onto my shoulders and pulls me to a sitting position. A wave of dizziness comes over me for a moment. When it has passed, she pulls me to my feet. Her strength astounds me.

"Come on. You can do this."

But I can't, not for very long. We make it across the stream somehow, but then I collapse onto the stony ground when we reach the other side.

Katniss lets me rest for a short time, but then she urges me up again.

"Please Peeta."

The pain in her voice worries me. How bad is my leg? Using every bit of strength, I get myself up into a standing position. Katniss props me up with her shoulder and somehow we stagger back to the cabin. The fire in the hearth is dying down as we enter, but that is the last I remember.

When I awake the fire is roaring, Katniss is lying next to me, and I'm not wearing any pants.


	7. Chapter 7 - Black and White

**7. Black and White**

What kind of fool does Peeta take me for? I rush out of the cabin in search of the truth.

But it doesn't take me long to realize that Peeta spoke the truth when he said there was nothing beyond the stream. I regret my actions altogether as I climb over the boulders, especially when I look down and see that I have torn the sleeve of Madge's dress. Then I hear him yell.

His wail is so loud that I freeze. It doesn't sound fake; it has all the hallmarks of someone who is seriously injured.

I change directions and turn back. Peeta is lying on the ground near the stream when I find him. For a moment I think he is dead because his face is so pale in the moonlight. Despair falls over me that I am left alone in this beautiful setting. Tears course down my cheeks. I lay my hand on his chest, and sigh in relief as I feel his chest rise and fall in a rhythmic pattern.

I run my fingers through his hair. My mouth goes to his ashen lips and I kiss him. His eyes fly open. I am so grateful that he is alive, but then he tells me about the injury to his thigh. I run my hand over his upper pant leg. It is sticky with blood.

Something kicks in, an inner strength, and somehow in that black night I get Peeta back to the cabin and onto the pallet.

His eyes are closed. I remove his boots, cursing for a moment as I untangle his double-knotted laces. Then I reach up, and unbutton his pants. I wonder idly where he purchased such authentic garb. I remove them slowly, careful to keep the fabric clear of the injury to his thigh.

Underneath his pants he sports the official nineteenth century underwear. It's made of thick cotton muslin with a broad waistband. There are buttons up the front and a cut "v" in the back to adjust the fit. The legs are long, ending a couple of inches below his knees.

The white underpants are bloody and torn and I unbutton them as well, glancing at Peeta's face for a moment to see if he is awake. The idea of undressing him while he is unconscious makes me uncomfortable on so many levels. And not because I haven't seen a naked man before, it's because I'm so attracted to Peeta.

Once I have removed his pants, I cover his privates with the gray blanket. I don't need a distraction while I look at his leg.

The wound on his thigh needs to be cleaned. Fortunately the water Peeta boiled for tea hasn't evaporated in the heat of the dying fire. I find what looks to be a clean towel folded on the mantle near to the dishes. I dip it in the warm water and wash the blood from his wound.

The cut is jagged and deep. He needs a trip to the ER to get it stitched up. But given the circumstances that likely won't happen. I search frantically through the cabin for bandages; he must have a first aid kit living in such an isolated place.

But there's nothing. However, when I open the trunk I uncover a stockpile of odds and ends stored in his extra pair of boots. Apparently they serve as Peeta's junk drawer. A sewing needle is stuck into a spool of dark thread.

Sighing, I thread the needle and begin stitching Peeta's skin together. I don't know what I'm doing, and it's all I can do not to gag. I wonder if Peeta keeps a bottle of medicinal whiskey on hand. I need a drink.

Peeta doesn't wake as I sew. I stop a few times to rest my hand on his chest to be sure his heart is still beating. I suspect he is unconscious from loss of blood.

When I am done with the stitches, I retrieve the white linen cloth that the combs were hidden in from the table. I wrap it around Peeta's leg loosely like a bandage, tying it off with a square knot.

I go back to the table at look at the combs. The red color looks vibrant in the candlelight. I put them into my hair for safekeeping. Madge will be furious with me if they are lost.

I throw some wood onto the fire to keep it burning and blow out the candles.

Peeta breathes steadily so I guess he's resting, which is something I need to do as well. But I don't want to lie on the wooden floor like Peeta did last night. Instead I climb over him and wedge myself between his solid body and the wall. There's not much space but I can squeeze in.

I turn onto my side and face the log walls, rubbing my fingers over the rough surface wondering what my next step should be. It's as if I've stumbled into a western Shangri-La. And despite what I told Peeta about my desire to return to my old life in Portland, it's not true. Other than Gale and Madge, there's nothing to keep me there. Since Prim's death I've stopped caring about that life altogether.

But Peeta's insistence that the year is 1852 unsettles me because there's a ring of truth about it. If real, and that's taking a gigantic leap of faith, it would explain why I can't find the reenactors and why no one has found me.

Because I know people must be searching. My picture probably already has its own box on _Yahoo._

Unless Peeta is another Tony Stark with enough resources to play out his wildest reenactor fantasy, I can think of no other explanation for the authenticity of his cabin and its contents. And I can hardly believe that in 2014 the U.S. government would _give away_ 320 acres of land for _free_.

Peeta groans. I turn and quickly sit up. "How are you feeling?" I put my hand on his forehead. Fortunately there's no sign of fever caused by infection.

"I stitched up your wound and wrapped it," I say. "Don't move too much or it might start bleeding again."

"Thanks," he murmurs. He blinks a few times. "Hey you're wearing the combs. I was right, they look nice on you."

I flush as I remember my reaction when Peeta showed them to me.

"Peeta we need to talk. I have something important to tell you."

I lie back on the pallet and turn my head to face Peeta. He is already on his back but he twists his head toward me, a panicked look in his eyes. Our faces are a few inches apart.

"You said the year is 1852, but where I'm from it's 2014."

His mouth curves up. "You're from the future." I think he mocks me.

"It's true." I am indignant that he doesn't believe me outright but then I remember running away when he told me the year was 1852. At least his wound will keep him here to listen to me.

I spend the next hour telling Peeta about cellphones and television and fancy coffee drinks and hot showers and movies and antibiotics and cars and planes and computers and the internet and electricity and refrigeration and air-conditioning and people who play at history by dressing up in old-fashioned clothes and every sundry detail of the twenty-first century that make it home to me.

When I am done, he touches my cheek and leans in closer and kisses me. Everything I told him flies out of my head. His kiss stirs something deep inside me. I grow warm and that heat spreads out along my arms and legs.

We kiss for so long that I am ready to climb on top of him not caring about his stitches when he breaks away. We stop and catch our breath.

"Katniss, if your story is true, what magic did you do to arrive here?"

I run my tongue over my puffy lips. "I don't know. But I dreamed of you the night before I got here."

He smiles.

And then I realize what caused it. "It must be these combs," I say, reaching to my head and touching one. "My cousin's wife Madge bought them in an antique store in this little town called Mellark on the way to the reenactment."

Peeta gives me an odd look. "That's my last name. Mellark."

My eyes widen. "Is there a town named for you?"

Peeta laughs. "Not yet."

"I slept in them the night before I showed up here. But then Madge woke me up and took them from me. Did anything special happen at your end before I arrived?"

"There were colors in the sky," Peeta says. "They shimmered like a rainbow at night."

"Do you mean an aurora borealis?"

Peeta shrugs, like he doesn't know the term.

" I've never seen the phenomena here," I continue. "I didn't think Oregon was far enough north."

"I remember wishing someone was here to watch it with me," Peeta says.

"So you wished me here."

"Maybe." He kisses me some more.

"What am I going to do?" I murmur when we pull apart to catch our breath. But the question is rhetorical because realistically I know I can't return to 2014, unless Peeta has a pair of ruby slippers hidden in the cabin.

And I would be accepting of this new life, but one for thing. Gale and Madge. They must be frantic at my disappearance.

"If there was some way that I tell my cousin and his wife that I'm safe, I'd feel so much better about everything," I tell Peeta.

Peeta runs his hand across my cheek. "How could you tell them? They're not even born yet."

And that's when I relax. I suddenly realize that Prim hasn't been born either. And instead of being sad about losing my little sister, she still has her whole life ahead of her. Perhaps, with a little planning, I can even prevent her getting anywhere close to that gas explosion.

"How do you think it works?" I ask. "Is everyone existing all at once, all living in different worlds?"

"I don't know," Peeta says. "I don't even care. I'm just glad you found your way to me." He turns onto his side, stitches be damned, and the gray blanket falls away. I quickly lose Madge's dress and then the only world I care about is the one that exists on this pallet of pine needles in the middle of the Oregon wilderness.

**Epilogue**

A month later, when Peeta's leg has healed we hike to his brother's house. Rye and Delly are shocked to see a woman by Peeta's side, but he makes up a story about me being the niece of a drunken homesteader named Haymitch Abernathy. We borrow their horse and wagon, and head into Oregon City where Peeta makes an honest woman of me.

We're just in time, too, because within a couple weeks I'm nauseous and regularly in need of the new privy that Peeta constructed.

Peeta makes good on his plan to improve the land and sell it in three years. We have two children, a daughter and newborn son, when he opens his bakery in Oregon City.

And as the years pass, I make arrangements for the future. I write a letter to Prim warning her of the gas explosion. One day Peeta and I pose for a portrait and I write a note on the back of it to Madge. I make my grandchildren swear that these letters and the combs will passed along through the family and delivered at just the right time. Some day, Madge will purchase the combs and slip the picture into her purse. Maybe later, in her grief at my disappearance, she'll study the photograph, turn it over and read my note.

I won't lie and say I never think about my old life. There are many days that I'd like to escape the drudgeries of the nineteenth century, and curl up in front of a television to watch a movie and scarf down a pizza. Times when I wish for miracles of 21st century medicine.

But fresh air, simple food, and regular physical labor, along with the occasional dose of garlic tea, keep my family healthy and strong.

Peeta and I never see the shimmering lights that drew me from my world to his. But that's okay, because I would never willingly leave. History never looks like history when you're living through it.

**THE END**


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